Tell me something
by Ms.Informed13
Summary: "Tell me something." She demands in the darkness. "What do you want to know?" You ask. "Anything." She pauses a moment, "Something about you I don't know already." Relatively cannon Faberry relationship through a Quinntana friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- This will be a short thing with about three or four chapters, centered around a Quintana friendship and Faberry relationship eventually. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Tell me something." She demands in the darkness.

You laugh and roll over to look at the back-lit lump you know is her, Brittany's hair is sticking out bright and blonde from the top of the blanket. You know the tall dancer must be asleep because Santana is running her fingers through her hair so gently, "What do you want to know?"

"Anything." She pauses a moment, "Something about you I don't know already."

"You know everything about me."

"Nobody knows everything about anyone else." She states simply.

You think for a moment, playing with the edge of the blanket, "I'm addicted to peanut butter."

"Invalid, I already knew that."

You huff a sigh of annoyance, the ancient springs of the fold out couch dig into your worn spine, it's the first sleepover since they've let you out of the hospital. The uncomfortable sensation is magnified by your recent surgery but you revel in the pain because it reminds you of being normal and of being able to feel, "I love reading poetry."

"What kind?"

"Any kind. Mainly sad poems."

She laughs, it's light and you can see her shoulders shake with it. It's been ages since you've seen her let go and be so free like this. By ages, you mean it's been since you woke up after your first surgery. She hasn't been this free since she confirmed with her own eyes that you were still living, "Of course." Considering how long you've known each other, this news is no surprise to her.

"Tell me something." You ask quietly.

She doesn't say anything for a few beats and you wonder if she's heard your question, "I believe in love at first sight."

Before you can contain it, you're asking in your signature smart-ass style, "What about blind people?"

She answers with a smack on your arm, "Tell me something."

"I don't believe in ghosts."

She hums her agreement.

"Tell me something."

"I used to be a brat."

"You still are."

This time you avoid her slap but catch her laughter full force, "Tell me something."

You rub your left foot gingerly over your right ankle as you contemplate your next words, "I used to cut myself."

She doesn't move- you're not even sure if she's still breathing. You know you're not, "Where?"

"On my ankles mainly, but a few times on my hips and the tops of my thighs."

Her hand snakes from it's place on Brittany's back over the top of the blanket looking for yours and when she finds it, she doesn't hold it. Instead she rests hers over yours gently like you'll break if she pushes too hard. You might.

"Thank you."

"For what?" You can't imagine why she'd be thankful after what you've just unloaded on her.

"Telling me."

* * *

Your lungs burn in the good way. You never thought there would be a good way again after you felt what the bad way was like in the hospital when you woke up after surgery. But slowly, bit by bit, day by day, you've been moving on and growing stronger.

Every other day Santana has been making you go running with her. Today is Saturday and you've just made it six and a half miles- a personal record since the accident. You collapse in a heap on the soft grass of the park next to your house.

Her laughter is easily distinctive behind you and you throw up you fist, middle finger proudly sticking out.

"That's not a nice gesture, Quinnie."

"My body is on fire. I simultaneously can't feel anything and can feel everything at the same time. Is that normal?"

"No." She laughs and lays down next to you, one arm thrown easily behind her head- she is barely sweating and you hate her for it.

"Tell me something." You ask. You just want to be distracted, but this has become your way of communicating. Small truths exchanged one for one.

She brushes her bangs back and furrows her brow in thought, "I've only ever punched three people." This surprises you, sure you knew she wasn't as big of a bitch as she let on, but you thought that she'd gotten into it with more people than that, "That can't be right."

"Yeah. There was that boy the day we met in elementary school, then in middle school a kid who tried to pick a fight with me, and then Karofsky when he slushied Brittany our freshman year."

"But you've slapped me at least five times."

"I said punched, I lost count of open handed hits a long time ago."

You laugh, that makes sense, "Gotcha."

"Tell me something."

"I don't believe in marriage."

"What? Quinn, the closeted hopeless romantic doesn't believe in marriage! Has the world tipped on it's axis?"

"The world is naturally tilted."

She flicks your arm playfully, "Not the point blondie. Explain."

You roll over on your stomach with a groan, "It's just such an archaic gesture. I mean it's the root of a male dominated society to begin with. Besides, mature adults don't need a piece of paper or a ring to prove their dedication. That's just as insecure as a pinky promise."

"Who kicked your puppy?" She asks rhetorically.

"Shut it. Tell me something." You prop your head on your hands to fix her with a proper stare, arching your eyebrow in your signature style.

"I actually like the movie Rent."

"Knew it!"

She looks genuinely surprised that you're not surprised, "How?"

"It's the only movie you didn't threaten to punch Rachel if she made us watch it at the last Glee bonding night." You remind her.

"Oh right. Tell me something."

You take a deep breath, what you want to say had been burning a hole in your throat for the last eighteen years, "My mom- she's a." You stop and try to figure out the words.

Santana scoots over and wraps an arm around your shoulders, you relax into the embrace, "You can do it, Q." You wonder how long it's been since she found out, because she must already know. From how much time she spent at your house ever since you were kids, there's no way she doesn't know.

"Judy's an alcoholic."

She doesn't say anything, just rubs her hand up your arm gently. You don't realize it until she goes to pull you up, but you've been crying, "Come on, let's get an ice-cream and watch Rent."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- Thank you for reading, here's chapter two. Drop a review, let me know what you think! Warning- mentions of abuse, nothing explicit.**

* * *

"Tell me something."

"Santana," You huff, you're sitting in first period AP English Literature and you're both bored out of your minds. Sure the class is generally interesting and you're reading Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte which you normally love, but you've read it so many times you could practically recite it word for word and Santana is more interested in making inappropriate comments off of everything your teacher is saying, "we're in class."

"And I'm about to be asleep in class. Do your civic duty, keep me awake and tell me something."

"I love this class."

"Don't lie to me, it's not nice."

You roll your eyes and give in, "If I tell you something will you promise to be quiet for the rest of the class period?"

"I promise to think about it." She smirks at you. The two of you have desks right next to each other pushed together in a pod so it's easy for you to elbow her sharply.

"Pinky swear." You hold out your pinky expectantly.

"How old are you, Quinn?"

You roll your eyes, "Just do it."

You don't really need to think about what to tell her after she caved in and linked pinkies with you. It's something you've wanted to tell her for years, and now she can't question you about it for the whole next hour. So you lean over and whisper in her ear, "Russell used to hit Frannie and I. Judy was too drunk to notice."

Instantly, Santana's face pales and her smirk falls off. She falters for a moment, "What? How long ago?"

Instead of answering, you just shake your head, "You pinky swore, no more questions."

"That's when I thought you were going to confess to stealing my hairbrush or that you were secretly in love with Tina or something! You don't just drop this on someone and then expect them to stay silent!" Her whispering was steadily escalating and the last few words rushed out in an angry breath.

Your teacher levels you both with a disapproving glare which Santana quickly rolls her eyes at. She refocuses her attention on you, "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner? You're the closest friend I have aside from Brittany and as much as it pains me to say this, I love you Quinn. I care about you and it sickens me to think that anyone would hurt you like that."

The teacher finally stops his lesson to address the two of you, "Fabray, Lopez, if you can't remain quiet you need to leave my class!"

Santana speaks up before you can even get your mouth open, "That sounds like a great suggestion, sir! Let's go, Quinn." She grabs you firmly by the elbow and steers you out into the hallway. The door closes behind you before you really realize what has happened.

And when you do, you are furious, "Santana! What the hell?"

She ignores you and shoots a look up and down the hall to ensure your privacy. There's just one freshman at his locker a few feet away from you. One look from the brunette has him tripping over his feet in his haste to get away.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell anyone, San. It was a long time ago, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Of course it matters, you can't stay in that house Quinn."

You sigh, it's your senior year, and there's only a few months left before you leave for college, "I'm alright Santana, I don't need saving."

She shakes her head because she knows how dense you can be and she'd never claim that you need saving from anything. Rather than fight with you, she wraps you in a hug, you resist the hold for as long as you can until your fight dies and you melt into her shoulder.

…

You're in college and Santana is visiting your dorm for the weekend. Your room is small and she teases you for it. She teases you for everything, but that's just Santana.

She's in New York with Rachel and Kurt (which you tease her for) and she's working in a restaurant (which you also tease her for), and she's doing so well. But so are you, except when you're not, but those days are not most days.

It's past midnight when you finally squish into your dorm bed together, it's far too small for the both of you, but Santana sure as hell isn't sleeping on the floor, and neither are you. You've shared the same bed enough times growing up that she knows you like the left side better, and she only warns you once jokingly about pushing her off in the middle of the night.

She rolls over for the third time with an annoyed huff because your mattress is 'too damn hard' before she gives up trying to sleep, "Tell me something." She asks.

You roll your eyes because it's been months since she's done this, and you answer because you know that this is Santana's way of checking up on you.

"I failed a math quiz last week."

"Define 'failed'."

"It was a seventy percent."

You can practically hear Santana's smirk, because you both know that 70 isn't failing, but at Yale, for you, it might as well be.

"Tell me something." You ask.

"If Berry and Porcelain have one more midnight singalong to something with Barbra Streisand in it, I might go postal on them."

You laugh because you know Santana secretly loves the singalong nights.

"Tell me something."

You take a deep breath before you reply. It's something you've been wanting to say for a long time, but all the same, it's something that you've never wanted to admit.

"I think I like girls."

You feel more than see Santana nod, "And how do you feel about that?"

"I don't know." You admit in a shameful whisper.

"You know there's nothing wrong with liking girls. And if you do, there's nothing wrong with you. I love you no matter what, and you know Frannie and Britt do too."

It's your turn to nod, as you struggle to keep your tears in. You've never said those words out loud before and suddenly they feel so much more real.

Santana wraps her arm around your shoulders, and even though you're taller than her, and even though you're nineteen, you let yourself curl into her while she strokes your hair and lets you cry it out.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N- You all know me too well! I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as the last, thank you for the reviews, definitely drop another one to let me know what you think so far/ how you're doing. I've got one final chapter in the works before I think I'll close out this story.**

 **Have a great day, and stay warm, it's starting to get chilly (At least out here on the East Coast)**

* * *

It's sophomore year of college, and you're the one visiting Santana this time. She's still living with Kurt and Rachel, and it's still an apartment far too small for the three of them, but it's International Vodka day so you're all celebrating. Also, you've just found out that your girlfriend of three months has been cheating on you for the past two months, so you're a little more motivated than the other three.

It had started with a drinking game to the movie 'Rent' and had devolved from there until the four of you are sitting on the floor of the living room, completely trashed while 'Funny Girl' plays out in the background.

Rachel is the first to pass out, she's so small still, and her alcohol tolerance never had the opportunity to build in high school like yours and Santana's did. You all realize the singer is out when a loud snore resonates from behind the coffee table, Rachel is curled around one of the table legs, her hair all sorts of a mess.

You all laugh, and you stand up (only slightly wobbly) and go over to her. Santana suggests drawing a mustache on her, and instead, you kneel next to her and roll her over into your arms. You carry her all the way across the apartment to her bedroom where you drop her gracefully in her bed.

She automatically rolls over and buries her face into the pillow, and you pull the blanket over top of her. You kiss the top of her head (only slightly sloppily) and go back to join the other two on the floor where you find Kurt mostly asleep as well.

"I'm not carrying him to bed too." You say before plopping down next to Santana.

She just sort of nods like she isn't either, and you both only slightly care that he'll wake up with a horrible cramp.

You pour yourself another shot, still not feeling quite as drunk as you need to be. You throw it back, grimacing, and looking for anything to chase it with. Santana hands you what's left of her hard cider (it's early December, and Santana is still working through her fall alcohol collection.)

You finish that too before reaching for another.

Santana watches you skeptically for a moment, "Tell me something."

You're not nearly drunk enough yet and you still think you can taste Abigail on your lips (even though you know that's ridiculous) so you answer, "I feel like shit."

"You look like shit." She replies.

You roll your eyes, "Tell me something."

Santana doesn't make eye contact with you when she admits, "I miss Britt."

It's been a few months since they broke up, and you've just been counting down the days until they both admit that it was a mistake and they get back together. You want to reassure her, but you know that's not what she needs.

"Tell me something." She says to get the attention off herself.

Maybe because the alcohol is finally getting to you, and maybe because you're positive that Kurt is asleep now, you tell the truth, "I'm in love with Rachel."

Santana smiles at you drunkenly, and you wonder if you'll both remember this in the morning, "I know."

The last thing Santana says before going to sleep that night is a slurred 'if you had kids with Berry they'd be loud as hell. Cute, but loud as hell.'

…

You've been with Rachel for something like five years by the time you're both twenty six. You're both not quite where you thought you'd be by the time you thought you'd be there in that Rachel was nominated for a Tony award last year, and though she didn't win, she didn't stop smiling the entire night. As for you, you published a poetry collection when you first started working on your PHD, and now you're trying to decide if you want to leave the world of academia.

All of this only matters because it means you have to be mindful of what you do, so when Santana comes over to the apartment you and Rachel share for your weekly Thursday night dinner and drinks, you two have to go up the back fire escape if you want to sit on the roof.

That's where you are tonight, each of you has a mason jar of white wine (Santana never stops teasing you for how absolutely 'hipster' it is of you), talking about flower arrangements.

"You know I don't really have an opinion about it, but I'm trying to be helpful."

Santana rolls her eyes, "Just tell Berry you like those pink and white ones, she wants to get those ones anyway."

"Did she tell you that?"

"No." Santana laughs, "But I have eyes, and all the other ones are absolutely dreadful."

You sigh in agreement, normally you aren't so thrown off by this stuff, but everything is different when it's for your own wedding.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, you thinking about how you're supposed to pick a wedding band (since that's the largest responsibility Rachel has entrusted you with), and Santana thinking about goodness knows what.

Eventually, you need to stop stressing about the wedding so you ask Santana the three words that you've said countless times, "Tell me something."

"Ever since you proposed to Rach, I think Brittany is expecting me to do the same."

You laugh, because you can't resist it, "You've been together for like ten years, I think it's time."

She glares at you and you both know it's your fault, "Why did you propose?" She asks.

"I love Rachel."

"You used to lecture me when we were kids about how ridiculous of a gesture marriage is, now you're the first one of anyone from McKinley tying the knot." She is genuinely confused, and you know it's understandable. You hadn't asked her about it before, you hadn't planned some massive proposal, it just sort of happened.

One night Rachel came home from a long rehearsal, and when she smiled at you, sitting on the couch writing something for your next collection, you didn't process the words that fell from your mouth when you said 'marry me'. It wasn't a question, it didn't need an answer, but Rachel had nodded anyway and said 'of course'.

"It's something that Rach has always wanted, you know she was the kind of girl who played 'wedding'. I'm doing it for her."

Santana nods, seemingly accepting your answer for now, "Tell me something."

"I don't want Russell at the wedding."

This is no surprise for Santana, she knows you and Rachel have been ignoring the question of who will walk you down the aisle. Rachel knows you haven't talked to your father in nearly eight years, and you know that Hiram has offered (more like begged) to escort you, but she's waiting for you to decide.

"He doesn't deserve to be there." Santana agrees, "Did you send him an invitation?"

"No." You finish the rest of your wine, "Judy thinks I should talk to him and get closure or something."

"The only closure you need is to let me close my fist on his nose."

You laugh, you know without a doubt that Santana would take him out if you let her. You don't let her.

The wedding is beautiful, Russell doesn't get invited, and Hiram has tears in his eyes when he walks you down the aisle before LeRoy follows with Rachel.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N- Thank you all for your wonderful reviews, this is the final chapter of this story. I hope you've enjoyed the journey!**

* * *

You can't breathe right.

It's not that you are breathing wrong. You spent enough time breathing wrong on the side of a road, tasting blood and gasoline, feeling air slip out of your destroyed left lung like water in a sieve, that you know exactly what it feels like to breathe wrong.

This isn't it.

This is the too close, the every cliche suffocating feeling of diving too deep in a pool, the final drawn out breath just before you cross the finish line, but you aren't in a race, there's no prize here, and nobody is congratulating you because you aren't allowed to stop yet.

You can't breathe right so you leave. The room is so crowded anyways that nobody really notices your absence, you squeeze Rachel's shoulder, press a kiss to her forehead, because you really do love her, and you really are so proud of her, but you can't breathe.

You leave the room and walk all they way down the hall until there's no more hallway and you're in a staircase. You were taught in school that smoke rises, and all the same, you follow your hummingbird heart all the way up the stairs until you find a door that will take you out onto the roof.

You don't go anywhere near the edge, you haven't thought those kinds of thoughts since you were twenty and still so young. Besides, the lights of the city at night are far too beautiful to be thinking about taking a dive. Rather, you lean back against the wall beside the door you've just come out of, and you breath.

You focus on your out breath because that's what your therapist has always been telling you, and for how much you're paying her, you might as well take her advice. You consider going to the stop and shop down the road and buying a pack of cigarettes, but you haven't smoked since you were in high school and you decided to dye your hair hot pink.

Instead, you take a deep breath, and scuff your shoes against the concrete of the roof.

You don't hear the door open behind you, and you don't hear the even footsteps track across the roof to stand beside you. Rather, you see the black of your best friend's blow in the wind, and you know Santana has found you out.

"How did you know I'd be up here?" You ask without bothering to actually look at her.

"It might be because I know you, and it might be because I followed your unsneaky ass."

You can hear the smirk on her voice, and all it takes is one sideways glance to verify the expression.

"Tell me something." You ask, wanting to be distracted.

Santana shakes her head because you're both nearly thirty and you're still playing this game, "I haven't been in a hospital since your car accident."

You nod, because you know that Santana's never liked hospitals and even less after that day.

"Tell me something." She asks.

"I want to smoke." You say.

"No you don't." Santana says without hesitation, "Because if you did, I would kick your ass so hard, you would feel it in the lung and a half you have left."

You laugh because you both know that she's right.

"Tell me something."

She shoves her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, and for a moment you wonder how she manages to look so damn put together even at this ungodly hour, "I still don't know what I want to do with my life."

You smile because her definition of 'don't know what to do' equates to not knowing if she wants to run for public office the next election season, or take the position she was just offered at one of the most prestigious law firms in the city.

"I'm sure whatever you chose to do will end up being the best for you."

Santana shakes her head, "Tell me something."

"I'm not ready to be a mother." You admit quietly. It's something that's been weighing on your mind for nearly a year, more so in the past nine months especially. Now standing on the roof of a hospital where three floors down your wife and newborn daughter are waiting, you can hardly bring yourself to say these words out loud.

"You've always been ready to be a mother." Santana replies easily.

"But what if-"

"No buts." She interrupts you, "Do you love Rachel?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Answer me blondie, do you love Rachel?" Santana asks, narrowing her eyes, and forcing you to meet her own.

"You know I do."

"And do you love the adorable eight and a quarter pounds of baby girl downstairs?"

"Of course."

"Then you're ready." She concludes easily.

"My mom loved Fran and I, that didn't make her a good mother." You whisper sadly. It's something you've been coming to admit more and more easily lately as you come to accept your past as a part of you that you'll never really be able to get away from.

"You are nothing like your mother, nor will you ever be. Bad parenting isn't genetic."

"It's just, what if I mess the kid up?"

Santana pulls you in for a hug, she knows you don't like breaking down like this, but you let yourself be held for just a minute.

"Everything will be fine. You and Rachel are going to spoil that little girl rotten, and she's going to grow up believing that she can do anything because people come from across the world to hear her mom sing, and her mother writes novels that spark social change. She's going to grow up with all the love in the world."

Before you know it, Santana's wiping the tears leaking from your eyes, and straightening your hair, and you know that you must look like a mess.

"Now let's go back down there so you can try and fight with Rachel more about the name, then in two minutes concede and let her name your daughter Nora, because we all know that you let Rachel have what she wants."

You sniffle once more, and hug Santana one last time because you're still not good at the whole 'L-word' thing before you straighten your shoulders and prepare to go back to your family.

But you can do this, because you have a _family_ one with unconditional love, and singing barefoot in the kitchen while you make Rachel pancakes, and movie nights where Rachel insists on watching scary movies even though you both know she won't sleep through the night afterwards, and now a beautiful daughter who already has Rachel's perfect chocolate brown eyes, and the most adorable dimples you've ever seen.


End file.
